


hate you like a love song

by doremifasorashige, thunderylee



Category: Kis-My-Ft2 (Band)
Genre: Canon Universe, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2019-01-18 06:31:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12382797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doremifasorashige/pseuds/doremifasorashige, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderylee/pseuds/thunderylee
Summary: Fujigaya doesn’t understand love because all he knows is hate.





	hate you like a love song

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from agck. written for cotton candy bingo (won't fall in love...oops in love).

Love, Fujigaya thinks, is a tricky thing. It’s a bit like a virus that won’t just go away, and even when it does, there are lingering traces of it forever. Like the chicken pox. Love is like the chicken pox, just not as itchy. At least physically.

“This is why you’re not allowed to use metaphors,” Yokoo tells him as he crumples up Fujigaya’s latest attempt at serious song lyrics. “Why don’t you just write about sex as usual?”

“Because…” Fujigaya starts, frowning as he tries to put his thoughts together. “I want to do something different for once.”

“Taisuke,” Yokoo says gently. “Don’t fix what isn’t broken, right? You’re the sexy one—write about sex. Besides, your concept of love is quite skewed. As your friend, it worries me.”

At that moment the door opens and Kitayama yawns in greeting, big enough to show his tonsils and Fujigaya frowns again. His heart beats faster and something in his stomach flops, almost to the point of nausea. Fujigaya wants to punch him in the face, then fix his hair that’s sticking up on one side like he didn’t bother to look in a mirror before he left the house. What kind of idol is he.

Fujigaya wishes he could convey these feelings to Yokoo right now, because this is exactly what he’s talking about in his analogy, but that would involve actually admitting things and there’s no way in hell that’s happening. Ever.

“There is nothing to worry about,” Fujigaya says pointedly, turning his attention back to the task at hand. “I can not write about sex and not fuck it up.” A childish sound comes from the other side of the room, but Fujigaya wishes to ignore that in favor is staring down the blank paper and coming up with something. If writing lyrics was hard before Kitayama came to work then it’s nearly impossible now. “Besides, not everything is about sex.”

“Now I’m really worried.” Yokoo pressed a hand to Fujigaya’s head, knocking his glasses askew. “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head or something.”

Fujigaya shoves his hand away, claiming he is perfectly fine and that Yokoo is being worrier as usual. “I’m allowed to change things up a bit.” Fujigaya’s bottom lip is starting to jut out in a pout automatically and he has to fight it to help make his point.

Yokoo looks at him with serious eyes but his attention is already slipping from the conversation once Nikaido comes in the room, being an over excited ball of energy as usual. “If you say so.” His sigh is deep and it tells Fujigaya that this conversation is anything but over.

The thing is, love isn’t in any way like the lyrics in the love songs these days. Nothing has ever made Fujigaya more miserable, stressed, upset, angry, and self-loathing. And no matter what he does, he can’t get rid of it. He has tried _everything_. Well, everything short of exorcism, but all of the “experts” had seemed like quacks.

One thing he agrees with in the traditional lyrics is that love is uncontrollable. It hits you and there’s nothing you can do about it. Absolutely nothing, except sit there and torture yourself with fantasies that will never (can never) happen. To make matters worse, when you have to see this person nearly every day of your life, it’s there taunting you, like a carrot to a fucking horse, only you can’t run after it like a horse. You have to stand there and suffer because you’re not supposed to like carrots, not even a little bit.

Fujigaya bashes his head against his notebook later at home as he tries to write _realistic_ love song lyrics. He doesn’t need Yokoo to tell him that nobody wants to listen to a song about someone’s stupid face and annoying voice that won’t leave their head, how the familiar scent nearly cripples them and leaves them unable to even smile. How they can’t even look at another person in that way because that someone is always there, in the back of their mind, not even as the basis of comparison that no one else can live up to, but just as a cruel reminder of where their true feelings lie. Whether they like it or not.

“Fuck my _life_ ,” Fujigaya says out loud, then lights up as he realizes that’s a perfect song title.

To avoid another “helpful talk” with Yokoo, Fujigaya keeps his song to himself. He can just hear the conversation already, “You know you can’t name a song that, right?” and he’ll give Matsumoto-senpai as a perfect example. Fujigaya doesn’t really want that conversation either way.

As songs go, Fujigaya has about as much luck with this one as he did with the others. It could be the concept of love that has him thrown off seeing as he’s never written about it, but anyone can write about love. Even Senga or Tamamori or Miyata could probably write about love even if it would be the stupidest song ever.

“How’s the love song going?” Yokoo asks one morning, planting himself on the arm on the small sofa that Fujigaya unsuccessfully tried to bury himself in with his notebook.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He snaps his book shut distracting himself with his phone, trying to ignore Yokoo’s gaze on him.

“Why are you trying to write a love song anyway? Since when do you think about love?”

Fujigaya makes a face but doesn’t respond. He knows why but it doesn’t make sense. Up until now, Fujigaya was able to ignore (for the most part) that stupid feeling ruining his life. Recently it just seems to have grown out of control.

“He probably hasn’t gotten laid in a while,” Kitayama offers. Fujigaya didn’t even know he was there yet. As usual, Kitayama is talking around a mouth full of food. Some quick breakfast he got on the way.

“For your information I have gotten la—” Fujigaya cuts himself off when both Kitayama and Yokoo give him a look saying they weren’t asking. It’s for the best really. That way he doesn’t have to stretch the truth. “It’s not the same thing anyway,” he says instead. “You don’t need to love someone to fuck them.”

“True that!” Kitayama declares, almost in a cheer, and Fujigaya prides himself on not throwing his notebook at Kitayama’s head. Even with as much of a dick as he is, it’s not Kitayama’s fault that Fujigaya is having such a tough time wrapping his mind around the feeling of love.

Except that it’s _completely_ his fault. Stupid carrot. Stupid Kitayama and his stupid face with his stupid eyes and his stupid voice that _won’t leave Fujigaya alone_. He feels like he’s being stalked inside his own head—which probably wouldn’t make very good lyrics either.

“I hate you so much,” he says clearly, staring right into Kitayama’s sleepy eyes, and means the exact opposite.

“And by hate you mean love, right?” Kitayama’s voice sounds like he’s purring in that sleepy tone as he walks by, batting his eyelashes at Fujigaya.

If Fujigaya didn’t want to throw something at him before, he sure as hell does now. “I need a smoke,” he announces to the room, getting up and stalking out without another word. He almost thinks that Yokoo is going to come out and follow him, asking what’s bothering Fujigaya because he always does, but when it’s a good ten minutes later and Fujigaya doesn’t feel like hitting Kitayama in the nose (that stupid nose), he figures his mood has been blamed on drama filming stress. Now only if his life could be that simple.

He’s just putting out his cigarette when the door opens, but it’s not Yokoo who walks out with his new swishy hair. It’s someone much shorter, someone who makes Fujigaya’s blood run hotter and raise his body temperature even in the winter chill.

“Fuck, it’s cold out here,” Kitayama grumbles, looking more awake than Fujigaya’s seen him off-camera in a few years. “Watta told me to work out our shit, so let’s work it out.”

“ _We_ don’t have any shit to work out,” Fujigaya says, trying to speak over the loud pounding of his heart in his ears. He’s already a bad liar and Kitayama can be quite observant when he actually makes the effort to pay attention. “You’re the one who—” he stops himself short before he adds _won’t leave me alone_.

“Won’t you feel better if you just tell me what’s bothering you?” Kitayama asks gently, and he actually looks sincere. “Just tell me so we can talk about it.”

This just makes Fujigaya rage. “Why are you like this?!” he yells.

“Like what?” Kitayama asks, and now a bit a slyness creeps onto his face. “What am I like?”

“Ugh, never mind,” Fujigaya says, turning around and staring over the balcony. Not that there’s much to look at, just the parking lot, but it beats looking at Kitayama. Kitayama and his stupid _knowing_ face.

“Taisuke, you’re acting like a child.” Footsteps sound closer, and Fujigaya nearly jumps over the ledge when he feels a firm touch to his shoulder. “Did I do something to you?”

“You did everything to me,” Fujigaya mutters. His body shudders under Kitayama’s touch and he hates it, hates himself for reacting like this, and hates Kitayama for torturing him like this. “Go away.”

“I think…” Kitayama trails off, but each passing second makes Fujigaya tense even more. “I think that’s the exact opposite of what you want.”

He’s not teasing this time, and there’s nobody around to show off for. His hand tightens on Fujigaya’s shoulder, like Fujigaya would run away if given the chance, though by this point Fujigaya doesn’t have any more fight left in him to do anything other than sigh in defeat. That bastard won, just like he always does.

Kitayama’s soft, gentle touch forces Fujigaya to turn to face him. He keeps his eyes trained on the ground, staring at their shoes and the cement. “We don’t _have_ to talk about it,” Kitayama says after such a long silence that left Fujigaya feeling as if his heart was about to burst from his chest. “We could talk about getting drinks after work or something. Or about food.”

Fujigaya has to fight the smile off his face. “It’s always food with you.” He’s sure Kitayama can hear the laugh in his voice.

“I love food just about as much as you love making people think you hate me.”

It’s so obvious what Kitayama is doing, but Fujigaya can’t help but let himself fall into the trap, throwing his gaze up to meet Kitayama’s eyes. “I never said I _hated_ , hated you!”

“No.” Kitayama leans on the rail a bit, trying to act nonchalant and not more than interested in the conversation. “But you act like it. You make me think of a junior high student with a crush.” He’s laughing now, looking up at Fujigaya through his bangs. “If I didn’t know any better I’d swear that’s what Watta meant by work out our shit.”

“You wish,” Fujigaya replies. It’s almost automatic by now, the venom that shoots out of his mouth whenever Kitayama is involved somehow. Especially when he’s looking up at him like that, his stupid bangs in his eyes and Fujigaya’s right hand makes a fist at his side to keep from moving it out of the way.

“Maybe I do.”

It takes a second for Fujigaya’s brain to process the unexpected response, and he has a few false starts as he grasps for something appropriate to say.

“Made you speechless already.” Kitayama smirks. “Still got it.”

“What the hell,” Fujigaya finally articulates. “Don’t fuck with me.”

“Oh, Taisuke,” Kitayama says, and Fujigaya swears his voice drops an octave. “You would know if I was fucking with you. This is nowhere close.”

“You piss me off _so much_ ,” Fujigaya hisses at him, anger fueling even more when Kitayama just folds his arms and smiles.

“Do something about it, then,” Kitayama says, his tone challenging, and Fujigaya acts without inhibition.

The railing of the balcony creaks from their combined weight as Fujigaya shoves him into it with both hands, his fingers gripping onto the stuffing of Kitayama’s coat after the fact. It in no way makes anything better; in fact, it’s much worse being this close to him, feeling Kitayama’s shocked gasp on his face in a gust of warm air, and _now_ Fujigaya feels the cold, a sharp chill curling up his spine as his hands tighten.

He doesn’t mean to pull Kitayama towards him, but Kitayama’s the one who fists his collar and yanks his head down, claiming his mouth and pressing their lips together so hard that Fujigaya couldn’t pull away even if he wanted to.

Everything is hot and cold at the same time when Fujigaya feels the slight brush of Kitayama’s fingers against his neck where he missed his collar. Kitayama’s lips are demanding, taking all of his attention and not leaving a second for Fujigaya to pull away or fight back; he doesn’t even want to try, allowing himself to slowly slip into the kiss. Fujigaya shouldn’t be enjoying this, not from Kitayama, not when everything is Kitayama’s fault, but his brain doesn’t want to function anymore.

When Kitayama finally does pull away, Fujigaya feels light headed and ridiculous for how tight his grip on Kitayama’s coat just to keep himself upright. He can feel Kitayama’s fingers brush up along his neck and jaw, leaving his skin hot against the cold air. “You were saying?” Kitayama murmurs into Fujigaya’s hair when he has to lean down to avoid his stupid smirk. “Do I still piss you off?”

“Yes,” Fujigaya wants to say, now if only he can find his voice.

Kitayama’s touch drifts along his hairline and his shiver has nothing to do with the weather. “Let’s go out after work. To eat, because kissing makes me really hungry.”

“You barely kissed—” Fujigaya starts, but then Kitayama’s hand is firm on his jaw, pulling him back into his mouth. This time Fujigaya doesn’t hold back, all of his reservations and frustrations pouring out of him as Kitayama gives it back just as hard. It feels like they’re fighting with their mouths, only it’s hot and both sets of hands are clutching onto the other somehow, Fujigaya’s dropping to Kitayama’s waist to wrap around him properly. Having Kitayama in his arms after so long of fighting it feels so surreal, even more so since he never allowed himself the fantasy of considering it before. He always stopped it before it got to that part.

“After work, okay?” Kitayama says again once they break the kiss, pulling back just enough so his lips brush against Fujigaya’s as he talks. He gives another small kiss, chaste and shy in comparison to the other two, then pulls away to head back inside. He shivers once he gets through the door, talking to himself about how it’s too fucking cold to be making out outside.

Fujigaya watches him walk away and round the corner, mind confused and muddled with emotions. He almost contemplates banging his head into the cold railing when realizing what he’s just agreed to but Yokoo would ask so many questions with that and he’s not ready to answer them. Fujigaya just takes a deep breath and closes his eyes trying to calm down the pounding in his ears. Right behind his eyelids all Fujigaya can see is the promising spark in Kitayama’s eyes.

“I see you worked things out,” Yokoo says that evening when everyone is gathering their things. Fujigaya hasn’t had a rude comment against anyone—especially Kitayama—all day; Nikaido had called it a reason for celebration. “I’m glad.”

Fujigaya wants to argue that the only thing worked out was Kitayama’s tongue down his throat, but he’s not ready to disclose that information yet. “I guess.”

Kitayama slaps Fujigaya on the back as he heads out. “Ready?”

Fujigaya can already feel that bubble of emotion build back up in his stomach, that coupled with the look Yokoo is giving him has Fujigaya rushing to get his stuff together and hurry out the room. He’s not keeping secrets from Yokoo, he just doesn’t want to explain things.

He expects to be dragged to a restaurant, or at least a cafe with tables and chairs, not a street vendor selling _hot dogs_. “Seriously?”

“What? They looked good in your drama,” Kitayama explains with a shrug. “Gave me a craving.”

Fujigaya blinks at the way Kitayama devours his hot dog before the vendor even hands Fujigaya his, like he’s tearing it apart and sucking it down at the same time. He ends up paying for both of them out of distraction, then snorts at the amount of change he gets back. “At least you’re a cheap date.”

“Is that what this is?” Kitayama asks airily, swallowing the last of his food and tossing away the wrapper in a nearby trash can. “I might have to get another one of those.”

“I…” Fujigaya stops short and narrows his eyes, pointing his own hot dog at Kitayama. “How can you say things like that so easily?”

“I don’t think it will be offended that I wasn’t satisfied with just one,” Kitayama says seriously, then fakes a gasp. “Oh, you meant the date part.”

“I hate you so—” Fujigaya starts, then falls silent as Kitayama leans forward and takes a huge bite of the hot dog in his face. “Great, now you’ve contaminated my dinner.”

“No worse than the way you contaminated my mouth earlier.” Kitayama gives him a knowing look. “You’re cute when you’re conflicted, did you know that?”

Fujigaya’s praised on his good looks on a daily—sometimes hourly—basis, but hearing it from Kitayama has his cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

His own hot dog is shoved back toward his face as Kitayama rolls his eyes. “Eat. If it’s going to be like this, I won’t have you as a rail. I like something to hold onto, you know.”

That last bit has Fujigaya nearly choking on his bite, which just makes Kitayama laugh.

“You’re so easy to rile up,” he tells him, patting him on the back a few times. “I’m starting to understand why you have such a problem writing love songs now.”

“Why is that?” Fujigaya asks, trying to sound sarcastic though he’s genuinely curious. He hasn’t yet been able to figure this out for himself.

Kitayama grins and drops his hand down to the elbow that’s not involved in Fujigaya’s eating. “If this is how you feel when you like someone, you must really detest whomever you actually love.”

Fujigaya stops with his mouth open wide about to take a bit of his hot dog. He casts his eyes over to Kitayama hoping the blush on his face isn’t that noticeable at night. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says after getting over his shock, mouth full of food.

Kitayama’s knowing smirk comes back. “You’re as obvious as a five year old,” he says and lets his hand drop from Fujigaya’s elbow. “Eat or I’ll eat it for you.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts to walk ahead of Fujigaya, who figures he’s actually _trying_ to be a decent person. Fujigaya isn’t buying it though.

“What’s next on this…date, since that’s what you’re calling it,” Fujigaya asks once he’s walking the same pace as Kitayama, jacket pulled tight around him.

Kitayama thinks this over, looking thoughtfully up at the sky. “My place?”

“Are you trying to get in my pants?”

“Is it working?” The grin on Kitayama’s face removes all traces of seduction but still leaves Fujigaya wanting to kiss him silly.

Fujigaya snorts. “Not at all.”

Kitayama pouts playfully and leans himself into Fujigaya. “I was so sure it would work and you’d give in easily. Seems I’ll have to try harder.”

Fujigaya resists the urge to smoosh what’s left of his hot dog on Kitayama’s head and busies himself with eating the rest of it. Kitayama’s leading the way to the train station that goes in the direction of his apartment, and Fujigaya lets him, his nerves on edge. He has no idea whether Kitayama is serious or not, or whether he wants to find out, but as they stand entirely too close together on the crowded train, he realizes he’s already made the choice.

Now a different feeling washing over him as he actually considers being like that with Kitayama. He hasn’t allowed himself to think about it before, but now that it’s a near possibility, there’s really no reason to block it out anymore. He already knows what his mouth feels like, though the memory of it makes him even hotter than the combined body heat in this train car, and he can only imagine what Kitayama’s touch would feel like. Those small but strong hands on him, all over him, maybe grabbing onto him—

“Your ears are pink,” Kitayama hisses, way too close. “What are you thinking about?”

“Why are you looking at my ears, freak?” Fujigaya hisses back.

“Not much else to look at right now,” Kitayama says pointedly, and Fujigaya turns to the side to see Kitayama glaring up at him from between two much taller people.

“It’s negative ten degrees outside, of course my ears are going to be pink,” is all Fujigaya says, his annoyance just fueling his arousal.

“Yeah, but it’s about fifty degrees in here,” Kitayama challenges, and Fujigaya nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels fingers slip under his coat and shirt, making contact with the flesh of his sides. “Don’t cause a scene.”

“Not on the train!” Fujigaya gasps, trying to elbow Kitayama’s hand away without being obvious. “Seriously, don’t you dare.”

“Relax, I’m not a train groper.” Kitayama’s touch turns gentle, his fingers and thumb stroking the sensitive skin until Fujigaya calms down. “When we get back to my apartment, I want you to tell me what’s on your mind, okay? Because I’m no mind reader, but I have a feeling you don’t just want to sleep with me.”

“Who said I wanted to sleep with you,” Fujigaya hisses, trying not to enjoy the way Kitayama’s fingers feel on his skin. The gentle way he moves them in slow circles makes it nearly impossible and Fujigaya almost finds himself leaning into the touch.

“Just a hunch.” Kitayama pulls his hand back, letting it fall to his side. “Your face is pink now.” He points out with a grin and Fujigaya is sure that if they weren’t on a crowded train he’d do something incredibly embarrassing, like maybe kiss him again.

Fujigaya wants the train to swallow him whole, make it as if he was never even there being tormented by Kitayama and his words, and soft touches with warm hands. “I seriously ha—”

“Hate me. I know, you only say it three times a day.” Kitayama looks away from Fujigaya, busying himself with digging around in his pocket for something.

The rest of the train ride they spent in silence; Kitayama gets more breathing room as passengers get off but is then pushed up against Fujigaya once another set come on. Fujigaya has to fight against the urge to curse under his breath when he feels Kitayama’s weight against his side. If he was hot before from the small touches, Fujigaya is burning up now that they’re pressed together. He is torn between wanting to push Kitayama away and wanting to pull him closer, to find out if it’s just Fujigaya who is hot all over, or if Kitayama really is just this warm bundle even if his down coat doesn’t look nearly as warm as Fujigaya’s own.

Outside is welcomed when they get off the train and start walking to Kitayama’s building. Fujigaya enjoys the cold air on his face, cooling down his body and making it easier for him to think. “Don’t start hyperventilating,” Kitayama says. Fujigaya feels Kitayama’s breath tickle his ear and out of the corner of his eye he can see Kitayama struggling to walk on his toes to say it.

Fujigaya isn’t sure what tells him to, but he lightly shoves at Kitayama, almost throwing him off balance. “I was not.”

“No, you just normally breathe like you need an oxygen tank.” Kitayama steadies himself on his feet and begins to walk normally, jingling his keys in his pocket. “Smoke another, why don’t you.”

“Very funny. I do recall you doing the same thing during lunch.”

Kitayama nudges him with his elbow. “Didn’t know you watched me so closely, Taisuke. You do care after all.”

Surprisingly Kitayama leaves him alone once they get behind closed doors; he half-expected to be accosted in the genkan. He looks around, noticing that everything looks exactly the same as it did the last time he was here, and squats down to pet Kitayama’s cute dog.

“Find out what’s going on with him, will you, Pocky-chan?” Kitayama calls out from the kitchen. “He clearly likes you better than me.”

Fujigaya rolls his eyes at a grown man talking to his pet like it’s a human being, but then Pocky’s looking up at him with pleading puppy eyes and he’s not so sure that they don’t have some kind of conspiracy against him.

The next time Kitayama speaks, it’s from right next to him. “Bet you wouldn’t pet me like that.”

Just to be a smartass, Fujigaya lifts his hand to scratch behind Kitayama’s ears, but Kitayama grabs him by the face and kisses him. It’s quick but hard, a small swipe of his tongue between Fujigaya’s lips to leave them tingling as he pulls away, and it makes Fujigaya hate him more.

Something cold is pressed against his chest and he looks down to see a beer. “Don’t make me get you drunk,” Kitayama says. “I don’t have that much liquor, and besides, you’re not hot at all when you’re sloshed.”

“What do you want, a confession in blood?” Fujigaya demands, finally blowing up from the combination of emotions coursing through him. “I can’t write a typical love song because all I know is how you make me feel and that’s nothing like what other people write.”

That wipes the teasing smile off of Kitayama’s face, though it’s replaced with a much smaller one. “How do I make you feel?”

“Like I have the fucking plague,” Fujigaya replies, feeling a little bolder when Kitayama doesn’t laugh. “Like, you’re _everywhere_ , and all I see when I try to think about that kind of stuff is your stupid face.”

Said stupid face just blinks up at him, completely expressionless save for those abnormally big eyes. “Really?”

“Yes,” Fujigaya replies, grateful for something he can speak about with certainty. “Everything you do, even when you’re not around and something happens that reminds me of you, which is practically everything, because _you drive me fucking crazy_.”

Saying the words make Fujigaya feel a lot lighter, though now he’s faced with a dumbfounded Kitayama who looks like Fujigaya just told him that aliens have landed on Earth and decided to take Hasshi as the human race’s representative of intelligence. He doesn’t speak for the longest time, just stares at Fujigaya for so long that Fujigaya gets uncomfortable and looks away, though every nerve in his body is screaming for him to stay right where he is.

“Taisuke,” Kitayama finally says. “That means you love me.”

“I do _not_ ,” Fujigaya insists, his face heating up again. “I don’t love you at all. I feel the exact opposite of love for you. I hate you more than anything—”

“I hate you, too,” Kitayama cuts him off, and Fujigaya falls silent.

Fujigaya stares at him for a long time, brain processing this information and trying to come up with a response. Nothing seems to come to him so Fujigaya looks down at his beer, cold between his hands and starting to numb his fingers. “Good.” His voice doesn’t sound very confident to his own ears, and he hopes that Kitayama doesn’t hear that stupid crack it just did. He’s not fourteen anymore. He can feel Pocky sniffing around his feet, wanting his attention again, along with Kitayama’s eyes on him. Fujigaya feels incredibly stupid now.

To rid himself of this feeling, Fujigaya tries to walk past Kitayama, about to make some witty barb about not offering your guests a seat, when he feels Kitayama’s strong hand on his arm, turning him back and forcing their lips together once more.

Thrown off guard once more, Fujigaya doesn’t know how to react when Kitayama’s other hand reaches of the back of his neck, tilting his head so they fit together perfectly. He’s pretty sure that if you hate someone you don’t kiss them. Not like this. Not with all this effort, and tongue. The faint tinges of alcohol on Kitayama’s tongue mixed with the hot dogs from earlier aren’t a combination he’d ever thought of before, but he doesn’t really mind it. Fujigaya has to breathe through his nose once he gets himself back together, kissing Kitayama back just as hard, hands tight around the beer he was given since he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I hate your stupid hair,” Kitayama says once they pull apart. His voice is breathy and coming out in pants. “And your constantly smug look, your slutty eyes you make at people—at the camera.” Kitayama’s running his fingers up the base of Fujigaya’s skull, threading them through his hair only to have it slip through his fingers easily. “I would’ve preferred to do this when you had girly hair,” he admits.

How is anyone supposed to respond to that? How is _Fujigaya_ supposed to respond to that? Damned if he knew.

He pushes at Kitayama slightly, forcing his back up against the wall. When he fuses their mouths together again, Fujigaya wonders what Kitayama’s stupid full lips would look like all red and bruised from their efforts. The thought has him working harder, pulling Kitayama’s bottom lip between his teeth.

“Yeah, well,” Fujigaya starts, huffing a little between desperate kisses. “I hate your voice, your stupid deep laugh, and how you eat your food like you’re having sex with it.”

Aforementioned stupid deep laugh goes straight into Fujigaya’s pants and Fujigaya pulls him closer, each admission of his feelings making him yearn for contact, to get rid of all the barriers between them and feel Kitayama’s warm body against his.

“And I really, really, _really_ hate your ass,” Fujigaya adds, almost growling it as his hands drop to the firm cheeks of Kitayama’s behind and pull a low groan from him—which Fujigaya can add to the list of things he hates about him.

“Fuck,” Kitayama gasps, his hips rocking in response to Fujigaya’s groping, and they nearly knock over a lamp in a blind search for something stable to lean against. “I hate how we’re still vertical.”

Fujigaya doesn’t often take charge like this, but something (everything) about Kitayama brings out his ornery, rebellious side that he left behind a few years ago. It’s Kitayama who leads them to his bedroom, but it’s Fujigaya who shoves him down onto the bed and crawls on top of him, rolling their bodies together as they both clutch at each other’s clothes all at once.

Years of whirlwind costume changes have them completely naked in seconds, hot skin sliding together with the faint hint of sweat that forms between them. It takes Fujigaya until he feels Kitayama swell against him, cock hardening and tiny gasps interrupting their kiss, for him to accept that he wants this, _really_ wants this, and that there’s nothing casual about it.

“Stop thinking,” Kitayama whispers, dragging his mouth to Fujigaya’s ear to trace the shell with his tongue, leaving Fujigaya a quivering mess on top of him. “If you hate my ass so much, stop thinking and fucking take it.”

Fujigaya doesn’t need to be told twice.

He latches his mouth onto Kitayama’s neck, sucking and kissing the skin until it turns a nice shade of red before he leaves Kitayama completely, groping around for his pants. He hadn’t planned on fucking Kitayama—or anyone for that matter—he just likes to be prepared.

Getting Kitayama to open is easy once Fujigaya three fingers coated in the cool liquid. He takes one and circles the rim, trying to tease, but it doesn’t go as well as he planned for Fujigaya wants nothing more than to take out all his feelings and show Kitayama just how much he hates him. Kitayama makes about as much noise with Fujigaya two fingers deep as he does when he’s eating. The sounds spilling from his lips and coming from his throat go straight between Fujigaya’s legs. He wonders how it would feel against his lips, pressing them to the the dark skin of Kitayama’s throat right by his adams apple, as he hooks his fingers.

Kitayama gives a low groan, arching off the bed.

Fujigaya can’t help the small whine he gives when their cocks brush against each other during Kitayama’s movements. “Mitsu.” It’s low and soft, and Fujigaya figures that Kitayama can’t hear him over the insane amount of noise he’s making himself.

Nails scrape down Fujigaya’s back when he hits the right spot, Kitayama pushing back down on Fujigaya’s hand telling him to go faster because “I’m not a fucking girl”. It comes out more jumble though, between Kitayama’s pants for air and moans. Fujigaya’s sure no girl he’s ever fucked as been this excited, that or Kitayama really wants it. It has him slipping in a third finger, spreading them and working Kitayama open as much as he can even though there’s a hand working its way between them and Kitayama’s small hands are working their way around his cock.

“ _Mitsu_ ,” he says again, and this time he knows Kitayama hears him because he grabs for Fujigaya’s hair with his free hand, making another frustrated noise when there’s not nearly enough to hold onto, but Fujigaya gets the point and leans down to fuse their mouths together. Kitayama squeezes him pointedly and Fujigaya gasps as his hips snap on instinct, pushing into the funnel those small fingers make around him.

“Do that inside me,” Kitayama whispers against his lips, and Fujigaya gropes along the mattress looking for the condom he’d pulled out along with his lube. “Come on, Taisuke, show me how much you hate me.”

Finally he finds it and fumbles to open the package, rolling it on and giving himself a quick swipe of lube before urging Kitayama’s thighs further apart and settling between them. He looks down at Kitayama’s face, his stupid ugly face that isn’t stupid or ugly at all, and reaches up with his clean hand to push the sweaty bangs out of his eyes, meeting Kitayama’s eyes that blink open to look up at him.

“Shut up,” he says, capturing Kitayama’s lips before they can open to say anything, and he punctuates his statement by rocking his hips, slowly pushing into Kitayama’s body that welcomes him with hot, tight muscles.

It’s hard to breathe but he won’t stop kissing, not because of what Kitayama could say, but because of what _he_ could say in the heat of the moment. Tongues chasing each other as Fujigaya’s movements get faster, harder, deeper until the bed is shaking from his efforts, and finally he falls out of their kiss and gives into his urge to feel Kitayama’s moans against his lips by latching his mouth onto his throat.

The pace was lost from the start, Kitayama’s equal efforts throwing Fujigaya off, making him work harder for a much louder reward. If Kitayama is loud when he eats, and was loud just before with Fujigaya’s fingers then this is like his voice is an entire stereo system. He reaches octaves that Fujigaya has never heard Kitayama reach before and it has him moving fast, working harder against the tight ring of muscles, enjoying the feel of Kitayama’s voice against his lips as the vibrations tingle.

Kitayama’s hands, Fujigaya feels, are working desperately to pull at his hair and bring his head back up to lock their lips together. He doesn’t want to though, loving the display of skin his lips are attached to. Fujigaya just thrusts into Kitayama hand, fighting to keep things going his way but Kitayama starts making whining noises. It’s like a tiny plea in between his moans of “Harder, Taisuke” and it turns Fujigaya on even more as he rocks his hips, changing the angle a bit. He finds that spot again, the one that has Kitayama nearly embarrassing himself with the sound he makes, Fujigaya would totally make fun of it if it wasn’t for the only thing coming out of his mouth when he opens it is unintelligent attempts of “Mitsu”.

This is different than any sex he’s ever had before, and he knows exactly why. Right now, in the middle of fucking him into his own mattress, Fujigaya can admit to himself that he doesn’t really hate Kitayama, not at all. He doesn’t hate the way Kitayama feels inside or out, the way those hands feel grasping at him, or the noises that have Fujigaya riding the edge of sanity.

Suddenly his mind is filled with song lyrics, though he doesn’t think he’ll be using them anytime soon. Except maybe in private.

“I’m so close,” Kitayama gasps between moans, each one taking Fujigaya higher. “Touch me, Taisuke. Make me come.”

Any other time Fujigaya would have scoffed at Kitayama ordering him around, but right now it’s more than okay as Fujigaya rushes to comply and groans at the first touch to Kitayama’s cock that has him tightening even more.

“Uh, yes, just like that,” Kitayama mutters, and Fujigaya’s ears burn from the filthy tone of his voice that has him thrusting more sharply. “Oh, I’m almost there.”

“Come for me,” Fujigaya whispers, dragging his lips up to Kitayama’s ear to speak right into it. “I’m gonna do it too so hurry up.”

“Fuck, _now_ ,” Kitayama gets out, arching beneath him as he spills over Fujigaya’s fist with a loud moan that Fujigaya feels in his toes.

It’s everything at once; the way Kitayama tightens around him, the tone of his voice, and the sole fact of knowing that it’s Fujigaya that made Kitayama a _mess_ that has Fujigaya coming as well. He gives short jerky thrusts, trying to rid it out, that are anything but gentle.

Fujigaya doesn’t want to admit it, once he’s stilled and is lying heavily on top of Kitayama trying to gather his bearings, but it was amazing. Not to be lame or anything. He tells himself it’s because of how much he hates Kitayama that made it better.

Kitayama’s looking at Fujigaya with sleepy eyes, ready to give any second, once he rolls off of him and removes the condom, tying it off to throw in the trash. It’s different that Kitayama’s usual sleepy looks, calculating his every move, clearly fighting to stay awake. “Stop that,” Fujigaya says when Kitayama’s eyes are still on him after he (reluctantly) cleans them both up. “I’m not going to do anything.”

“Oh good, I was worried you’d kill me in my sleep.” Even not with that filthy low tone, Kitayama’s voice sends shivers down his spine. It’s warm and has Fujigaya wanting to curl up close. He hates it.

“I’m not a child, Kitayama,” he says, getting back into the bed and putting a good amount of space between them.

Kitayama’s arm is heavy when it flops down over Fujigaya’s waist. He can feel the hot breath from Kitayama’s nose on his shoulder, and knees pressing into his thigh. “Back behind the walls, Taisuke?” Fujigaya can tell Kitayama is about to drop at any moment, voice low and heavy, some syllables coming out in a confused mumble.

“I don’t know…” Fujigaya starts, unable to bring himself to finish the sentence ( _how to do this_ ), and he’s pretty sure Kitayama’s already asleep anyway.

He’s not, though it’s with heavy arms that he pulls Fujigaya’s arms even closer, ignoring the way he struggles. “Well, until you know, I’m fine with this. As long as I’m the only one you hate this much.”

Fujigaya only smiles because Kitayama can’t see him. “No one else even comes close.”

What do all of those songwriters know, anyway? Love is subjective, completely unique to each person it attacks like a fucking machine gun. Maybe more like a tranquilizer gun, leaving him incapable of even the simplest of movements. All Fujigaya can do is lie there, immobile, and consider himself conquered, looking forward to the next shot.


End file.
